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Monday, December 26, 2011
My family has never been big on Christmas; we do not have a decorated tree, we do not exchange presents, and Santa Claus was the guy from primary school who we get to take pictures with when we were small. Christmas has always been a holiday and generally involves my parents abducting us to church, bribed with food afterwards.
On Christmas Eve this year, I made it rather clear that I would not be joining them for church. What is the point in showing up merely once a year, I thought? Once is better than none, my dad argued. Look at it as an outing, my brother added. I gave in, and by 20h we were sitting nicely in the car driving to church.
The church was not the one that we normally went to when I was a small girl, before we moved. The smell however was the same; the church packed while the people solemn and quiet. The mass started and I turned my attention towards the children carrying crosses, candles, and flowers, followed by the group of pastors. The rituals of songs and conversational preaches were religiously performed. I followed blankly, a dutiful act of copying and herding, until I began feeling stupid for I have not understood the why of it all. I frowned and wondered whether someone might frown at me if I were to leave the young mass.
My dad suddenly turned and asked me with obvious silent signs to figure out the page that contains the text currently being sung. I flipped through the booklet, and my ultimate finding was followed by his slow singing that either joined or trailed the mass. He held the booklet towards me, hoping that I would participate and yet silent I remained.
I wanted to throw in a witty remark, or to ask whether they understand the rituals we were supposed to follow. However, seeing them joining and stumbling but continuously trying silenced me. This is their ritual, their way of seeking solace and finding meanings. Who am I to judge?
I didn't start singing, I didn't say a word when we were supposed to fill the void, I didn't have an epiphany on that sacred night. Instead, I sat there sandwiched between my dad on my left and my mom on my right throughout until the end. A slight nostalgia flirted with me, and we proceeded to supper at a sandwich place after we claimed my brothers who were sitting outside the church and stayed awake until midnight.
I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas, wherever you are and whoever you are with.
On Christmas Eve this year, I made it rather clear that I would not be joining them for church. What is the point in showing up merely once a year, I thought? Once is better than none, my dad argued. Look at it as an outing, my brother added. I gave in, and by 20h we were sitting nicely in the car driving to church.
The church was not the one that we normally went to when I was a small girl, before we moved. The smell however was the same; the church packed while the people solemn and quiet. The mass started and I turned my attention towards the children carrying crosses, candles, and flowers, followed by the group of pastors. The rituals of songs and conversational preaches were religiously performed. I followed blankly, a dutiful act of copying and herding, until I began feeling stupid for I have not understood the why of it all. I frowned and wondered whether someone might frown at me if I were to leave the young mass.
My dad suddenly turned and asked me with obvious silent signs to figure out the page that contains the text currently being sung. I flipped through the booklet, and my ultimate finding was followed by his slow singing that either joined or trailed the mass. He held the booklet towards me, hoping that I would participate and yet silent I remained.
I wanted to throw in a witty remark, or to ask whether they understand the rituals we were supposed to follow. However, seeing them joining and stumbling but continuously trying silenced me. This is their ritual, their way of seeking solace and finding meanings. Who am I to judge?
I didn't start singing, I didn't say a word when we were supposed to fill the void, I didn't have an epiphany on that sacred night. Instead, I sat there sandwiched between my dad on my left and my mom on my right throughout until the end. A slight nostalgia flirted with me, and we proceeded to supper at a sandwich place after we claimed my brothers who were sitting outside the church and stayed awake until midnight.
I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas, wherever you are and whoever you are with.
Monday, December 05, 2011
Recently, there has been a strange development in my nocturnal activities: I have started beading and making my own bracelets. Hours would past unnoticed while I try to combine colors into a harmony that I would wear and later undo the next day as I would be no longer satisfied with it. Days would past like this, elastic strings attached and dis attached, beads joined and separated once more. Happy.
Last Saturday, I decided to visit the traditional local crafts market whose name is legendary for the creative bunch that by all account excludes me; visible in how lost I was throughout my entire stay there, as evident by the number of people asking me which store I am looking for in the sincere pity for a lost duck.
I wandered around, amused by everything yet anxious of finding anything. I walked out of the last beads store in vain, ready to give up for the day, to the music of traditional Indonesian acoustic. I walked aimlessly, nostalgic from the little carts selling the simple delicacies of my childhood. I walked through the textile stores selling cloths, where the Indian and Indonesian owners called out for the wandering to pay a visit through their prided collections.
Suddenly, my gaze was stolen and frozen on a dark brown silk Batik that flows down the headless mannequin's contoured cotton body with the splendors of hand-painted golden flowers near her ankle. Despite my complete lack of basic sewing or other cloth-processing awareness, I walked in and left with 2m of it. All the while, the musicians played on in the humid heat of the outdoors.
I felt like a Javanese princess, electronic readers, it was so beautiful that this simple act remained with me until today.
Last Saturday, I decided to visit the traditional local crafts market whose name is legendary for the creative bunch that by all account excludes me; visible in how lost I was throughout my entire stay there, as evident by the number of people asking me which store I am looking for in the sincere pity for a lost duck.
I wandered around, amused by everything yet anxious of finding anything. I walked out of the last beads store in vain, ready to give up for the day, to the music of traditional Indonesian acoustic. I walked aimlessly, nostalgic from the little carts selling the simple delicacies of my childhood. I walked through the textile stores selling cloths, where the Indian and Indonesian owners called out for the wandering to pay a visit through their prided collections.
Suddenly, my gaze was stolen and frozen on a dark brown silk Batik that flows down the headless mannequin's contoured cotton body with the splendors of hand-painted golden flowers near her ankle. Despite my complete lack of basic sewing or other cloth-processing awareness, I walked in and left with 2m of it. All the while, the musicians played on in the humid heat of the outdoors.
I felt like a Javanese princess, electronic readers, it was so beautiful that this simple act remained with me until today.
Friday, November 25, 2011
I pace the car slowly. This city deserves its famous legendary traffic, I thought. After almost 3 months of daily driving, I realized that traffic does not tend to bring the best in people. Apparently, being stuck incites the feeling of a zero-sum situation. Honks everywhere; some people just cannot realize that loudness does little in ensuring a smoother ride. I sip my coffee in a disguised annoyance from my I heart Jakarta tumbler that the Bear had personalized for me. It is black and bitter, just the way I prefer it.
My brother who sometimes shares the ride with me is vast asleep on the first passenger chair. He reminds me of a cat sleeping in the sun on the porch during the lazy afternoons. I brake and noticed that he too had noticed the simple change in motion. He looks up sleepily, slowly observed the abundance of stationary cars around for 2 seconds before he falls back into another round of sleep.
I feel the Friday morning blues subsiding; I had become increasingly awake and aware of my surroundings. Another honk, another angry driver. Bangsat, he cursed. An intriguing thing about the Indonesians I realized is how they can be incredibly angry at one second and in another shares the most sincere smile when he walks in the office. It’s as if they have two personas, one for traffic mode and another for working mode.
The traffic light turned red and brought an army of street sellers along with it. Various assortments from mints to sweets, energy drinks to water, mangoes to fried tofu, little electric cars and mini whiteboards , faces on covers of the latest daily newspapers and magazines are offered straight to my window to which I politely said no to.
A man walked towards my car. His face looked down, conveying the implicit difficulties he is having through this simple act. He was carrying another man, whose face was dim and eyes demanded my gaze. His legs looked unhealthily thin
Thoughts raced in my head. To give or not to give, that is the question. I did not have any food nor water that I could give. Having grown up in this city, I am aware of the existence of mobs who send kids with babies, along with the disabled to the streets of Jakarta for money, anything, in exchange for nothing more than shelter.
Some of the disabled were not born that way, and wouldn’t more money act as an incentive for such behavior in the first place? I weigh the marginal costs and benefits associated with each act, and found myself back in the same place where I started.
I opened my window and gave me some of my change. The man carried looked at me and smiles, broken and yellowing teeth in full display of sincerity. The man carrying him remained motionless, and the only reaction he gave was to move on. After all, I had bought what he was selling: moral justification.
My brother who sometimes shares the ride with me is vast asleep on the first passenger chair. He reminds me of a cat sleeping in the sun on the porch during the lazy afternoons. I brake and noticed that he too had noticed the simple change in motion. He looks up sleepily, slowly observed the abundance of stationary cars around for 2 seconds before he falls back into another round of sleep.
I feel the Friday morning blues subsiding; I had become increasingly awake and aware of my surroundings. Another honk, another angry driver. Bangsat, he cursed. An intriguing thing about the Indonesians I realized is how they can be incredibly angry at one second and in another shares the most sincere smile when he walks in the office. It’s as if they have two personas, one for traffic mode and another for working mode.
The traffic light turned red and brought an army of street sellers along with it. Various assortments from mints to sweets, energy drinks to water, mangoes to fried tofu, little electric cars and mini whiteboards , faces on covers of the latest daily newspapers and magazines are offered straight to my window to which I politely said no to.
A man walked towards my car. His face looked down, conveying the implicit difficulties he is having through this simple act. He was carrying another man, whose face was dim and eyes demanded my gaze. His legs looked unhealthily thin
Thoughts raced in my head. To give or not to give, that is the question. I did not have any food nor water that I could give. Having grown up in this city, I am aware of the existence of mobs who send kids with babies, along with the disabled to the streets of Jakarta for money, anything, in exchange for nothing more than shelter.
Some of the disabled were not born that way, and wouldn’t more money act as an incentive for such behavior in the first place? I weigh the marginal costs and benefits associated with each act, and found myself back in the same place where I started.
I opened my window and gave me some of my change. The man carried looked at me and smiles, broken and yellowing teeth in full display of sincerity. The man carrying him remained motionless, and the only reaction he gave was to move on. After all, I had bought what he was selling: moral justification.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
I have always wondered how the bus system in Jakarta works. And I do not mean the Trans Jakarta ones, but the green shabby ones with a yellowing Kopaja written faithfully; the monsters that I grew up with. Unlike the fixed stops I am used to, I rarely see such points in this city. What I see instead are buses stopping in the middle of the road as they wish, I assume to pick up the passengers. This observation led me to wonder whether no driver nor potential passengers ever complain against this erratic-ness.
This morning the traffic was surprisingly light, and I was finally close to my office when I saw an orange bus with no doors (the perfect specimen to represent its kind) slowing when a guy and a girl raised their hands in unison; the signal to summon I take it. A guy with visible money in his left hand jumped out from the back door while the guy jumped steadily and the girl carefully onto the front door. After ensuring the passengers were safely in, the money guy jumped back in and the doorless bus left in speed leaving no other trail of its presence but a cloud of smoke behind.
I watched the silent 5-seconds affair in a strange excitement while waiting for the red light. A second later a guy on a motorbike infront of me fell when another motorbike ignorantly pushed it on its elusive pursue to move forward amidst all the stationarity. I saw the first guy fell on the ground, accompanied by a loud thump of his vehicle on the concrete. Before I could even blink, 5 other guys rushed off their motorbikes and helped the guy up before attending to his bike. The perpetrator jumped off and apologized with sincerety in his eyes. The victim raised his hand and put on a reassuring face that he is alright.
The light turned green and everyone climbed back on their vehicles and drove on to start their day.
This morning the traffic was surprisingly light, and I was finally close to my office when I saw an orange bus with no doors (the perfect specimen to represent its kind) slowing when a guy and a girl raised their hands in unison; the signal to summon I take it. A guy with visible money in his left hand jumped out from the back door while the guy jumped steadily and the girl carefully onto the front door. After ensuring the passengers were safely in, the money guy jumped back in and the doorless bus left in speed leaving no other trail of its presence but a cloud of smoke behind.
I watched the silent 5-seconds affair in a strange excitement while waiting for the red light. A second later a guy on a motorbike infront of me fell when another motorbike ignorantly pushed it on its elusive pursue to move forward amidst all the stationarity. I saw the first guy fell on the ground, accompanied by a loud thump of his vehicle on the concrete. Before I could even blink, 5 other guys rushed off their motorbikes and helped the guy up before attending to his bike. The perpetrator jumped off and apologized with sincerety in his eyes. The victim raised his hand and put on a reassuring face that he is alright.
The light turned green and everyone climbed back on their vehicles and drove on to start their day.
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
One of the crucial component of effective strategy to get through a working day in Jakarta is to wake up early. Admittedly, waking up early is not a proud trait I possess; I am shamefully not a fully functioning human being prior to my morning caffeine indulgence. This morning was an achievement even to me, to my surprise I drove through my office's gate before the clock struck 8. I smiled to the security squad, a wide smiled good morning hello that they are accustomed to have as much as I am accustomed to exhibit.
I put my engine to rest, a privilege I was deprived from at this early hour when Jakarta is still surprisingly cold. The rain season has started, leaving me amused with the frequency and variety of water falling from the sky.
I opened the door, and saw one of our Office Boys watering the grass. It took me awhile to recognize him outside of his familiar uniform. He was lost in his music, black earphones resting in his ears and evidently kept him happily watering in his own world. His head accompanied his body, swaying to the left and then to the right, sometimes first and later lagged. His steps are guided by the rhythm that only he was aware of while ensuring that the grass is happily fed. His eyes were half-closed, while his smile unabashed, unapologetic; the opposite of the polite smiles that I received daily.
Simple things that make this city special.
I put my engine to rest, a privilege I was deprived from at this early hour when Jakarta is still surprisingly cold. The rain season has started, leaving me amused with the frequency and variety of water falling from the sky.
I opened the door, and saw one of our Office Boys watering the grass. It took me awhile to recognize him outside of his familiar uniform. He was lost in his music, black earphones resting in his ears and evidently kept him happily watering in his own world. His head accompanied his body, swaying to the left and then to the right, sometimes first and later lagged. His steps are guided by the rhythm that only he was aware of while ensuring that the grass is happily fed. His eyes were half-closed, while his smile unabashed, unapologetic; the opposite of the polite smiles that I received daily.
Simple things that make this city special.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Friday. As usual the thought of the approaching weekend led me to flirt with the idea of coming home early, but this time the acquisition of an Ondaatje classic had given this idea a magnetic pull. I shrugged it off with my cup of coffee and morning newspaper in this office ritual, excited to know what I will come home to. Little did I know that now at 13h I am already sitting in my car on my way back through the screaming crowd of people.
I was having my lunch when I heard the door open. The boss had come to find me. Apparently today is the National Youth Day when a peaceful demonstration by students is scheduled that lends its history to the flashpoint of 1928. Disappointments related to the current government, that was what I had read.
From the moment she opened the door, I quickly sensed the air of urgency in her eyes. Apparently our HR just told the team regarding the growing rumor that involves the imminent anti-Chinese riots in Jakarta. She encouraged me to take the day off. I looked at her in disbelief. Surely these things would be possible back then in the 90s? Indonesia was a different Indonesia then, so much have been acknowledged now? Didn't we already went through this?
She looked at me, acknowledging that rumors are just rumors. But what if it would be true? That slight chance was enough for her to grant me the day off. She offered to call for a security officer from the HQ to escort me home and I politely refused. Nonetheless, I packed my bags and left my bule and Indonesian colleagues while they resume their work.
--
They look clueless as they walk towards the main street. Most look like they are having fun being in the crowd more than anything else. Some are singing their provincial anthems, some are screaming demands that became inaudible due to the quality of the microphones, some just laughed and smiled and went along. The traffic stifled any possible movement. More buses came, evidently heavy with people. More people came, more flags are waved, and the louder everything becomes. We were sheltered behind iron and glass but not much safer did it made us feel. No honks were declaring annoyance of being stuck in traffic; we were left to be silent observers in our own cars.
--
Indonesia today is not the Indonesia that it was. We have entered a new phase following the fall of the regime, and we have been lucky to be where we are. Surely there are flaws and problems that engulf this country, drawing us to think whether this country is drowning faster and faster. But as my colleague sharply pointed out, it is not that bad. The mere fact that we could walk down the street without any protection, that we could have lunch together with no fear is what makes us lucky. My thoughts went to passive curiosity whether the Arab Spring would be as fortunate.
--
It is raining and I am sitting in a coffee shop with fragmented thoughts. The sun is shining yet water poured down. It was not however the intense tropical rain that swallowed the city in its might as the last week. This is a soft rain, a gentle rain that has a calming effect. It refreshes one's thoughts, leaving me to wonder whether it has the same effect for those currently standing and shouting and waving and blocking the veins of Jakarta.
I rest my chunky stroopwafel above my steaming cup and read on.
I was having my lunch when I heard the door open. The boss had come to find me. Apparently today is the National Youth Day when a peaceful demonstration by students is scheduled that lends its history to the flashpoint of 1928. Disappointments related to the current government, that was what I had read.
From the moment she opened the door, I quickly sensed the air of urgency in her eyes. Apparently our HR just told the team regarding the growing rumor that involves the imminent anti-Chinese riots in Jakarta. She encouraged me to take the day off. I looked at her in disbelief. Surely these things would be possible back then in the 90s? Indonesia was a different Indonesia then, so much have been acknowledged now? Didn't we already went through this?
She looked at me, acknowledging that rumors are just rumors. But what if it would be true? That slight chance was enough for her to grant me the day off. She offered to call for a security officer from the HQ to escort me home and I politely refused. Nonetheless, I packed my bags and left my bule and Indonesian colleagues while they resume their work.
--
They look clueless as they walk towards the main street. Most look like they are having fun being in the crowd more than anything else. Some are singing their provincial anthems, some are screaming demands that became inaudible due to the quality of the microphones, some just laughed and smiled and went along. The traffic stifled any possible movement. More buses came, evidently heavy with people. More people came, more flags are waved, and the louder everything becomes. We were sheltered behind iron and glass but not much safer did it made us feel. No honks were declaring annoyance of being stuck in traffic; we were left to be silent observers in our own cars.
--
Indonesia today is not the Indonesia that it was. We have entered a new phase following the fall of the regime, and we have been lucky to be where we are. Surely there are flaws and problems that engulf this country, drawing us to think whether this country is drowning faster and faster. But as my colleague sharply pointed out, it is not that bad. The mere fact that we could walk down the street without any protection, that we could have lunch together with no fear is what makes us lucky. My thoughts went to passive curiosity whether the Arab Spring would be as fortunate.
--
It is raining and I am sitting in a coffee shop with fragmented thoughts. The sun is shining yet water poured down. It was not however the intense tropical rain that swallowed the city in its might as the last week. This is a soft rain, a gentle rain that has a calming effect. It refreshes one's thoughts, leaving me to wonder whether it has the same effect for those currently standing and shouting and waving and blocking the veins of Jakarta.
I rest my chunky stroopwafel above my steaming cup and read on.
Sunday, October 09, 2011
More than 8 weeks ago I had packed and shipped 4 boxes of my life back to Indonesia without realizing to bring working clothes in my own suitcase. For a month, stealing my sister's clothes kept me from looking like a hobo in the office. But last night when I came home, they were there. My boxes are there. I was in utter disbelief, was it tiredness that caused the hallucinations? I have read stories about this.
The next morning they were still there. My boxes have made it home. I took the morning off to rummage through them, opening each boxes brought a smile to my face. The joy of being reunited! Working pants! Proper shirt! Heels! Books! Bed cover! The drought is over!!!
Yet with more item I touched, the heavier my heart becomes. How long ago has it been since I lived with them in my room in Holland? I realized how they became an ambassador of my life there, a bridge that still needs to be reconnected. Heavy in reminiscence, I began pondering why I have yet to feel happy to be back.
The next morning they were still there. My boxes have made it home. I took the morning off to rummage through them, opening each boxes brought a smile to my face. The joy of being reunited! Working pants! Proper shirt! Heels! Books! Bed cover! The drought is over!!!
Yet with more item I touched, the heavier my heart becomes. How long ago has it been since I lived with them in my room in Holland? I realized how they became an ambassador of my life there, a bridge that still needs to be reconnected. Heavy in reminiscence, I began pondering why I have yet to feel happy to be back.